


Feel You in My Blood

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Gun Kink, Gunplay, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 20:47:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5389706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The proper response to a gun pressing to the base of his skull is to move away, tense up and defend himself.  It is not and never should be to lean back against it, go breathless, and ask Porthos to fuck him while holding that gun steady. Then again, Aramis never was one for the expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feel You in My Blood

**Author's Note:**

> \O_O/ What can I say? ~~We all know why you're here and it's not to read this note.~~  
>  Gunplay. What it says on the tin. Enjoy!?

It is a simple moment of decision. By all means, this kind of greeting shouldn’t be a typical greeting between the two of them. Anyone with any sense would startle at the press of a gun to the base of his skull. It is not the first time that Aramis has been greeted in such a way – standing in the darkened corners of his stake-outs only for the gun to press to the back of his ear, Porthos’ deep chuckle soon following when Aramis leans back against it. It should not be greeted with warmth. It should not be greeted with the hushed promise of desire. But then, Aramis thinks, he and Porthos never were one for the expected. 

Porthos will greet him like this. Step back. Laugh. And they will move on, simple as that – no need for explanation or justification for that movement. 

Tonight, though, Aramis takes a step back, lets the cool touch of the barrel press hard into his skull. “Porthos,” he says, in greeting and in sanctuary – a plea, almost begging and unashamed that he is already breathless with the thought. “Fuck me with my gun.” 

This is not what Porthos expected to hear – how could it be, after all – and so he makes a rather soft, startled sound behind Aramis. Something like protest, but curious all the same. Aramis knows Porthos too well. 

But Porthos has never been one who’s been able to deny Aramis anything, so when Aramis turns and looks at him, kisses the hand holding the gun, kisses the curving metal that protects his lips from the trigger, he already knows that he will get what he wants. 

“Please,” he whispers, and Porthos can only ever agree after that. And others might think him damned in this moment. He can only see this as triumph, can only see this as the clarification of every little moment in his heart that belongs to Porthos.

And so they stumble back to Aramis’ bedroom, because how else can this evening go but like this, now. Aramis can’t be expected to wait, won’t wait – not when he knows what he wants, not when he can feel the brush of Porthos’ breathing against his cheek when they press together like this. 

These are the moments where Aramis might have questioned himself, when he was a younger man, more foolish, more concerned with his redemption. Question whether he would be worthy of it. It seems so long ago now that he might have been concerned about it, when there wasn’t salvation found in Porthos’ kisses, his heavy hands against his waist, or pinning him down. How long ago it seems since he’s known Porthos. Since he’s loved Porthos. 

Like this, though, he does not dwell upon it. No doubt can linger in his heart, and none does when he reaches out to press his hands to Porthos’ thighs, on his knees, squirming forward between Porthos’ legs. He could never doubt this. He never would, not when Porthos’ hand is so gentle upon his cheek, shifting back, twisting up into his hair. He cannot doubt this. He could never think it sinful to look up at Porthos like this, lips parted into a small smile, his hands flexing against his thighs, shifting up to cup his hips.

“Porthos,” he whispers, because that is what would be the truest sin: letting himself breathe without Porthos’ name on his lips. He could never think this unholy, not when he sees the way Porthos smiles back at him, the way Porthos loves him in return. 

He is stripped down, naked, Porthos’ old pillow on the floor for the sake of his knees. That is a kindness that few would think to grant him, but Porthos was always so kind, overly kind, devastatingly kind. 

He shivers, his cock hard and straining even just from this, and Porthos tugs on his hair, fingers twisted up tight. Aramis lets out a little whine, opens his eyes as he looks up at Porthos, mouth open. 

“Please,” he says. There is a slight tremor to his breath, his hands flexing at Porthos’ hips, trying to tug his trousers down enough so he might suck at his cock. 

“Go ahead,” Porthos allows, lifts his hips for him. Aramis shucks his trousers down enough so he can get to his cock, half-hard, mouth at it and plump it up against his lips. One hand fans up over his stomach, pushes up his shirt until Porthos grants him that mercy, strips it off of himself so he sits only with half-undone trousers and Aramis’ mouth on his cock. 

And then Aramis feels the cold press of steel to his throat and he gasps out, Porthos’ cock heavy on his tongue. The curl of the steel, the barrel of his own gun, presses against the lines of his neck and Aramis swallows thickly, feels his body swell to meet the cold kiss of metal. 

Aramis whines out when Porthos keeps the gun still against his neck. He suckles around Porthos’ cock, drags his tongue, curls his lips, lets the briefest whisper of his teeth touch at the head of his cock just to feel Porthos jerk his hips up with a gasp. And then the gun does move, slowly draws up, the muzzle moving against the slope of Aramis’ neck. It skims at the sharp line of his jaw, drags over the underside of his chin, tipping his face up. Aramis lets out a breathless, helpless moan, opens his mouth to gasp so that Porthos’ cock slips out. 

“Fuck,” Porthos whispers, and he looks just as undone as Aramis feels – flushed, pupils blown wide as he looks at Aramis. “Look at you.”

Aramis keens, scrambles closer, kisses sloppily over Porthos’ cock and turns his head to kiss at his hand, lets the gun drag over his cheek, press to the corner of his eye in a way that should make his heart seize up in his chest, but only serves to excite him. 

He closes his eyes, leans forward, drags his mouth down over Porthos’ cock until he’s swallowing around it, bobbing his head down little movement by little movement. He purposefully relaxes his throat, whines out, swallows down until he takes all of Porthos at once. He holds his breath, mouth slack, jaw loose, in order to keep from choking. He usually needs more preparation than this, more warning before he can take all of Porthos – but he is overexcited, overstimulated, and he simply _wants_. As always in these moments, Porthos goes breathless and holds very still. Aramis feels his cock twitch in his mouth, works his throat, swallows down around him, his nose pressing to the slump of Porthos’ pelvis. 

He has to draw back to breathe, however, bobs his head a few times and then pushes back with a gasping shudder of breath, and lets his head tilt, his cheek press down hard against the gun. He moans, weakly, nuzzles against the gun pressing to his jaw. His knees are starting to ache even with the pillow but he can’t care, can’t think of anything other than this. 

The gun moves across his face, traces over one cheek, moves to the other, presses at the corner of his mouth as Aramis pants, his hand fisted around Porthos’ cock to stroke him off so as not to move away from the gun. It touches over his face, presses to the bridge of his nose, traces to the tip of it and they both laugh, breathless, when Aramis tips his face up to meet it. It presses to his chin, the underside, up against his throat, around the cusp of his adam’s apple. 

“Porthos,” he gasps out again, his name a prayer, as the gun drags over his collarbone, presses to his heart, traces over the faint lines of his scars – knife wounds, musket ball wounds, so many stitches and lingering thoughts. And he can never trust himself to anyone like he does Porthos in this moment – he knows this, Porthos knows this. He closes his eyes, surrenders himself to that cold kiss of metal. 

The gun maps over his body and Aramis heaves his pleasure into his chest, his heart racing, his mouth open around his panting moans. His hands shake, one braced against Porthos’ thigh to lean back, open himself up to his considerations, the other stroking a lazy cadence over his cock. The gun moves further, lower, touches at each rib, each scar, each heave of his stomach as he shudders in breath. It touches at his hips when Aramis lifts himself up with a weak little whine. 

He leans forward, braces his hand against Porthos’ thigh to kiss him desperately, squeezing around his cock. And Porthos moans into his mouth, kissing him back – makes it messy, makes it linger, bites down hard on his lip and drags him in closer. And Aramis can feel the warming gun against him, warm from his own skin and pressing to his stomach. And then, yes, yes, it moves down, presses to the base of his cock, drags down the hard length of it, and Aramis breaks the kiss to gasp out, grab hard at Porthos’ hip, and rock forward to rut against Porthos and the gun. 

Porthos tugs hard on his hair, draws him away from Aramis’ needy kiss, so that the gun can push to the underside of his chin again, tilting it up. He’s flushed, desperate, and he can’t even be embarrassed or mortified by the force of his own desire. 

“Please,” Aramis whispers again, tries to tilt his chin down – and Porthos nods once, moves, presses the gun to Aramis’ mouth. It presses to his mouth and then coaxes forward and Aramis opens his mouth to meet it, the gun slipping into his mouth. 

He can taste the oil of its upkeep, the gunpowder and the remnants of smoke from countless firings. Aramis moans out, his heart pounding, and be braces his hands against Porthos’ chest, feels his pulsing heart. He sucks around the barrel like he would Porthos’ cock, laps at its muzzle and traces his tongue along the curve of the design etched into the metal. His own gun, heavy in his mouth, and he knows the paisley curls of vines like the back of his hand, follows it with his tongue and opens his eyes only so he can look up at Porthos through his eyelashes, hollows his cheeks to suck hard around the gun, performs against it as if it is Porthos’ cock. 

He tastes the grit and gunpowder of his gun, tongues at it, presses it into his cheek, moaning out helplessly as he moves against it, using the hands braced to Porthos’ chest for leverage, whines out happily when Porthos pulls on his hair to guide him along. 

Porthos’ free hand lifts up, traces the backs of his fingers against Aramis’ cheek, and looks at him like he is everything in God’s grand earth – that he is revelation and reverence, and the barrel of the gun sits heavy on his tongue, hard and unrelenting, nothing like Porthos’ cock but demanding all the attentions he’d grant it. 

It never occurs to him to be afraid, how could he be afraid – how could he be anything other than safe and loved beneath Porthos’ hands, like this? Loaded or unloaded, it does not matter – Porthos would always only ever treat him with gentleness and kindness. Porthos would never pull the trigger. There is no means to fear for his life when his life sits so protectively in Porthos’ hands, every time. And that Porthos would grant him this—

His blood sets on fire when Porthos draws the gun back. He moans out, helpless, tries to catch it again. Instead, Porthos just drags it hard over his bottom lip, spit-slick, and Aramis whimpers, eyes fluttering shut. The hand on his cheek tilts his face up, thumb dragging along his cheek bone, presses down there so he can feel the pressure. Aramis presses a soft kiss to the barrel of the gun. 

The gun moves, trails over his chin and presses against his throat. He feels it and he swallows down, feels the press of warmed metal against his feverish skin. He arches, moans out, hands falling to Porthos’ thighs, lowering himself back down between his legs so he might lay worship to him anew. 

The world tilts for him and he lurches forward, presses harder against the gun but seeks Porthos’ mouth. He kisses him, breathes out his name in a startled gasp, and sucks the breath from him until he can hardly remember anything beyond the sound of Porthos’ name in his throat, the taste of his mouth against his – soft lips, but the grit of gunpowder. 

Porthos draws back, barely any space between them to breathe. He touches at his cheek, leans in closer, brushes his lips to his and over his jaw, to his ear. A small offering, gentle and tender to counter the press of the gun to his jaw. 

“You’re shaking,” Porthos whispers, that string of worry – the willingness, the need, to pull back as soon as Aramis expresses discomfort, as soon as Aramis demands the end. 

“I’m – _God_ , oh God,” Aramis whispers to Porthos’ mouth, kisses him again and again, “I love you so much.” 

“I love you, too,” Porthos murmurs back immediately, voice colored with his relief, and his hand drops down, cups his cock. Aramis gasps out, rocks up desperately, sharp breath and needy, keening whine as he scrambles closer to Porthos. Wants everything at once – his mouth, his hand, his gun. 

“Porthos,” Aramis whines out, rocking up desperately into his hand. “Please. Please, let me—”

“What do you want?” Porthos asks, his voice shaky, and the strain of his cock so close to Aramis’ hands betrays just how much this is all affecting him, too. Porthos leans in, kisses him. “Tell me. The gun or my cock?” 

“Fuck,” Aramis gasps out, almost a sob. Both, both, he wants both so desperately. But instead of answering, he drops down lower, mouth open and willing. Pillows his lips over Porthos’ cock and then swallows down around him, movingly desperately. 

He hears Porthos’ breathless laugh cut off by a moan, a hand fisting into his hair while the other presses the gun up to his cheek. 

Like this, Porthos spends into Aramis’ mouth not too much longer after that. Aramis suckles around him, drinks him down, swallows around him as Porthos thrusts up desperately into his mouth. And Aramis is good for him, so good, he always wants to be good for him – drinks up every last drop of his come, lets it coat his tongue and throat, and swallows down around him – only drawing back once he’s sure he’s spent.

He turns his head, kisses sloppily at the gun, too, licks at the muzzle. 

“Come up here,” Porthos demands, his voice graveled out in the wake of his orgasm. Aramis is all too happy to comply, scrambling up into Porthos’ lap – and God, what if he fucked him with the gun, what if he pressed it up inside of him – and Porthos hardly has to touch his cock before he’s spending over his hand with a startled cry and sob of Porthos’ name. 

Aramis, breathless, drops forward and presses his forehead to Porthos’. He kisses him a few times and soon the gun drops away from the line of his throat. Their kiss is gentle, and Aramis hopes Porthos can taste the gunpowder and his own come. Aramis drapes his arms over Porthos’ shoulders and melts into him, humming out weakly as they trade kisses. 

“You alright?” Porthos whispers out against his mouth. 

Aramis manages a small nod, laughing out breathlessly. “Oh, oh yes. I’m more than alright.”

“You,” Porthos murmurs, kisses the corner of his mouth and drags his hand through his hair, “are utterly mad.” 

“Oh, yes,” Aramis agrees, and melts into Porthos’ arms – kisses him until he can’t breathe, kisses him even after the gunpowder fades from his tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found [on my tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/) for whatever reason.


End file.
